In the run-up to Christmas, the boy was excluded from school and a week later stabbed his home tutor in the back of the hand with a ballpoint pen, alleging the man had tried to molest him.
Armed with this background at the case conference beforehand, Vanessa began the interview feeling sympathy for a young person whom life had dealt a raw hand; thirty minutes later she wanted to use the same hand to slap the smirk off his ratty face. Sullen, even tearful when it suited him, he was quick as a trained solicitor to proclaim his rights and privileges, taunting them with their relative powerlessness over him.
By the time the interview was over, the boy released back into his father's care, the social worker chewing her way through a roll of mints as she wrote up yet another report, Vanessa was more than ready for a drink.
Two pints and a vodka and tonic later, she wandered into Nandos with a beat sergeant she vaguely fancied and devoured peri-peri chicken and rice while listening to him rabbiting on endlessly about Thierry Henry and glories to come once Arsenal had settled into their new 60,000-seater stadium at Ashburton Grove.
Scratch him off the list.
Nine fifteen. Too late to catch a movie, too early to go home.
There used to be music, she knew, at the Bull and Last. Sometimes it was jazz but sometimes it was okay. Tonight, when she pushed the door open into the bar, it was nothing, just the electronic jingle of a few brightly lit machines and a television mumbling to itself above the bar. Fairly busy all the same, mostly men sitting singly or in pairs. A trio of clearly underage girls wearing next to nothing, more slap than clothes.
She could have turned round and walked out again, but instead she asked for a vodka tonic and carried it over to an empty table near the middle of the room, a few faces turning to watch her progress but not many.
She hadn't been there more than a few minutes before she was aware of someone leaning over her from behind.
Steve Kennet, smiling, drink in his hand, jeans, check shirt and short leather jacket, still trailing the faint scent of aftershave. He was sitting down next to her almost before she could react.
'Regular bad penny,' he winked. 'That's me.'
39
Vanessa didn't move. Didn't return Kennet's smile. 'What are you doing here?' she said.
Kennet shrugged. 'Same as you.' Affable enough.
'Why here?'
He glanced around. 'Not a bad pub. Quiet. Except on music nights. Or when there's some band on at the Forum. Packed out then.'
'You come here a lot then?'
'Wouldn't say a lot, but yes, once in a while. Steady.'
'You're not following me?'
When he laughed, his head jolted back, Adam's apple pushed out against his skin. 'That what you think?'
'I don't know. The other night on the bus, now this.'
Kennet shrugged. 'Small world.'
'Not that small.'
'Coincidence, then.'
Vanessa held his gaze a few moments longer, then picked up her drink.
'I'll move on if I'm troubling you,' Kennet said. He made no move to go. 'You've had a bad day, maybe. Want to be alone.'
'I have, as it happens. A shitty day.'
'Keeping the street safe.'
'Yes, if you like.'
'Okay, I just thought, you know, see a friend, share a drink, a chat…'
'I'm not your friend. We're not friends.'
'All those times…'
'I was Maddy's friend. Not yours.' Her voice was loud enough to turn a few heads in their direction.
'All right. Okay.' Kennet on his feet now, still smiling, backing away. 'Just thought you might appreciate the company, that's all.'
Hands raised, as if in surrender, he retreated towards the bar, pulled out a stool and sat down, quick to exchange a few words with the barman, who looked over in Vanessa's direction and laughed.
Vanessa closed her eyes, picked up her glass and lowered her head towards it, resting the rim against the bridge of her nose. When her breathing had steadied she leaned back, finished her drink in two swallows.
'You know there's a law,' she said to the barman, nodding towards the trio of girls nearby, 'serving alcohol to kids under eighteen.'
Kennet didn't as much as glance in her direction, but one of the girls stuck out her tongue and called her a name and the two others gave the finger to her back and giggled loudly.
There was a bus coming and she caught it to the Archway, thinking as they stop-started along about the boy they'd interviewed, what kind of a life he had, his sister too, wondering how much truth there was in the social worker's concerns, doing her best not to think about Kennet at all.
It was a nice enough night, not cold, not near as cold as it had been, and, getting off the bus, she loosened the scarf and unzipped the front of her coat. At the far side of the lights, she bought a copy of the Big Issue, though she knew, in all likelihood, it would end up in the bin unread. On Holloway Road she lengthened her stride. More exercise, that was what she needed, either that or it wouldn't be too long before she couldn't even squeeze herself into a thirteen. Swimming. Why didn't she leave for work an hour early, do a few lengths in the Prince of Wales pool?
At the corner of her street she slowed her pace and looked around but it was a bright night, as well as relatively warm, and there were no shadows lurking in dark corners. As usual, it took her a few moments to locate her key and she was just slotting it into the lock when an arm wrapped itself tight around her neck and she felt something cold and sharp pressing fast against the underside of her chin.
'Don't scream,' Kennet hissed in her ear. 'Don't make a fucking sound.'
Elder had phoned Maureen in Nottingham, not once, but twice.
'It's difficult, Frank. Seen asking too many questions too soon and the whole think might slip away. Give me another day or so, okay? As soon as I know anything definite, I'll be in touch. You've got my word.'
At least Katherine was at home where he wanted her to be. After a desultory five minutes of conversation, more silences than words, she asked him if he wanted to speak to Joanne and he said, no, it was okay, another time.
In the silence, Elder reached for the bottle and the glass.
He was drinking too much, spending too much time alone. Why had that been fine when he was down in Cornwall – perhaps the thing he relished most – but not here, in the city?
Difficult, too, not to let his mind slip back to the previous night, the taste and touch of another's skin. He was midway through dialling Karen's number when he stopped: what had happened between them, it was a one-off, a collision of need and circumstance, no more. Tired white meat, was that what she'd said? Sipping a little Scotch, he clicked the switch on the radio, a special report from our correspondent in Darfur.
In the hallway, Kennet kicked the front door closed. It was dark: not black but muted dark. Free newspapers and unwanted mail lay all down one side and underfoot. The air was stale and cold. When Vanessa opened her mouth to shout, Kennet narrowed the angle of his arm against her throat and a constricted choking sound was all that emerged. The knife was steady against the curve of her chin.